LEGEND
by thevampirealucard
Summary: A tale of a mage of the Elvhenan... and a Witch of the Wilds. Rated M for lemons, graphic violence, mature themes. R
1. Prologue: And So It Begins

_Circle Tower, Lake Calenhad, 9:11 Dragon Age_

"First Enchanter! First Enchanter!" Wynne's voice intruded on First Enchanter Irving's wanderings through the Fade, bringing him back through the Veil and into the waking world of Thedas with a sense of foreboding. What he had seen there this night troubled him, as if a power dark and terrible and inexorable as the winter cold was headed directly toward him.

"Yes, Wynne?" he asked his old colleague. He combed his hand through his thick brown hair, down over his fair-skinned face and over his small but growing moustache and goatee. As his vision cleared itself of bleary-eyed sleep, he took in his friend. Wynne was, in a word, stunning. Her hair—which only he had seen cascading down from her head, let out of its severe ponytail—was golden, her grey eyes the color of Lake Calenhad in the sunset. Yet she appeared… distressed.

"First Enchanter. Irving," she said. "Gregoir would see you. It is… urgent."

Irving bolted up, fatigue forgotten, and set about going to his new office, being as recently a First Enchanter as Gregoir, his counterpart, was Knight Commander. Gregoir was not without his faults, but he was an honorable man, and despite his insufferable nature, Irving felt the seeds of respect for him taking root. Nevertheless, he still stormed through the Tower, annoyed at being awoken at that hour but nonetheless nervous as to what had Gregoir at such a state at two o'clock in the morning. Whatever he expected, however, was not what greeted his eyes when he entered his office.

Knight Commander Gregoir was a man of thirty, as Irving was. But you would not know it to see the premature age that had fleetingly set in as he cradled a bundle in his arms. As it wailed, Irving knew it was a baby.

"First Enchanter Irving," said Gregoir. "It seems some of Harkonnen's men"—he grimaced at the name—"went and, on his orders, came upon a Dalish camp in the middle of the night, passing through a few leagues north of here. They fell upon them as they were sleeping, though the elves managed to raise the alarm. The things that they did with the women and female children…" Gregoir trailed off, very obviously shaken.

"So what does that have to do with the child in your arms?" asked Irving. He was not surprised; most if not all templars were nothing more than sadistic bullies, in the Maker's service or no. Lieutenant Commander Harkonnen was one of the worst he had ever had the displeasure to know.

Gregoir took a deep breath. "I found the men at the camp, some torturing, others killing, and still others rutting with elf females both living and dead. Maker, you'd have thought them Chasind! My men and I subdued them, leaving two people still living—this child and its mother. The father had been… gutted. The mother succumbed to her wounds shortly after. This child… it is all that is left of the Surana clan. The only survivor."

Irving looked at him expectantly, though within his heart, great rage and greater sorrow built in equal measure.

"The child, though… it is mageborn."

That shocked Irving. "Are you certain?"

"Deathly."

"But it is an infant," protested Irving. "Magi do not show until at least three or four, and, based on its size, that child is scarcely more than a year at most!"

"Be that as it may, the babe already sleeps with its eyes open."

Irving was taken aback. Sleeping with the eyes open only manifested in the extremely talented when their powers quickened, and with others, only after years of training. For this child to…

"Give it to me," demanded Irving, a decision reached. "If the child must be raised here, I shall do it personally. A child with that much power will be dangerous should it be trained incorrectly."

Gregoir turned the softly squalling child over to Irving, bound in black cloth. It was a boy, large for an elf of its assured age, though what was most striking about the fair-skinned child were his eyes, gleaming a remarkable shade of blue-grey that looked as though it was some of the fabric of the Fade that laid in the baby's skull as opposed to the regular orbs that nested within the ruddy faces of the other, older children there in the Circle. He quieted quickly in the First Enchanter's arms, and Irving felt what seemed to be… tendrils of magic caressing his mind, his gateway through the Veil.

"The elf woman regained consciousness one last time as she died," Gregoir said. "She said the child's name was Eldred."

"Then, Eldred," said Irving ruefully. "Welcome to the Circle of Magi."


	2. Chapter 1: Into the Wilds

_Nineteen years later—9:30 Dragon Age_

Eldred Surana leaned upon his staff for support, weakened by his recent dosage of corrupted lyrium, as he and Duncan, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, passed the Tower of Ishal and came face-to-face with a man who Eldred assumed that, based on the intricacy of his armor, was none other than Cailan Theirin, the Boy King himself. Though, Eldred observed, he was no longer a boy. The mage stopped beside Duncan, his thin frame concealed within his robes. He waited, watching from under his hood as King Cailan and Duncan exchanged pleasantries.

"Your Majesty, allow me to introduce you to…"

"There's no need to be so formal, Duncan. We'll be shedding blood together soon after all. Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?" asked Cailan, addressing him now directly.

"I am Eldred, your majesty," said Eldred politely.

"Pleased to meet you! The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I for one am only too glad to help them. I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you know some spells to help us in the coming battle?"

Eldred bristled at that, his misty, ethereal grey eyes flashing dangerously. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, I do not cast spells on command. Nevertheless, I shall do my duty."

Cailan seemed almost nervous behind his haughty exterior. "Excellent. We have too few mages here as it is. Another is always welcome. Allow me to be the first, then, to welcome you to Ostagar. I have no doubt the Grey Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks."

"You're too kind, Your Majesty," he replied with a bite of subtle sarcasm in his tone.

The Boy King noticed and winced. "Well, I'm sorry to cut this short, but I really must be getting back to my tent. Loghain is probably waiting eagerly to bore me with his strategies." Eldred, absorbed in his own amusement tempered with anger, did not hear what Duncan said… something about the king's uncle. He found it amusing, at times, how much fear he could inspire in men with the very truth of his nature.

When Cailan turned to head back to the camp, Duncan rounded on the mage. "What the king said is true. They've won several battles against the darkspawn here."

"Yet you don't sound very reassured," Eldred noted wryly, his eyes gleaming with an unearthly—yet slightly muddled—glow from under his cloth hood.

Duncan indicated the bridge into the ruined fortress, and the mage fell into step.

"Despite the victories so far," he began. "The darkspawn horde increases with each day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an Archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."

They stopped.

Eldred snorted. "You could, were he not such a fool."

"You must not speak of the king so," said Duncan disapprovingly. "He is... overeager, perhaps, but he is also one of the few Grey Warden allies. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we should proceed to the Joining ritual without delay."

"What do you need me to do?" Eldred asked, his curiosity piqued. Rituals were, by their nature, long and strenuous, often requiring ridiculous amounts of power. He liked rituals—their execution meant that he could go without the fatigue induced as a side effect of the concentrated liquid magebane poison that suppressed his magic. It was like wildfire, as Irving would often say. Great and terrible, such that he lacked sufficient control to channel it all properly. But with such a ritual—as he could do most of them alone—he could let loose his full, untamed power, such as it was.

"Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being," he said as they again began to walk. "There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to summon the other recruits. Until then I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to."

Eldred stopped to bow respectfully to the Warden Commander of Ferelden as the warrior continued walking. He looked about him. Difficult to believe that the people who had enslaved his ancestors, the elves of Arlathan, could create a fortress of such beauty. Never mind that much of modern shemlen culture was based on the ways and customs of the mage-ruled Tevinter Imperium that had dominated the world for millennia. He had mixed feelings for the magisters. On the one hand, they were incredibly powerful mages who had brought forth major advancements in the use of modern magic—much different from the ancient power given to the Elvhenan by the Creators. But on the other, their carelessness and arrogance in contending with powers they did not fully understand had not only led to the Blights, but had created a world that hated all mageborn, in which people saw fit to lock them in gilded cages like the Circle and treat them like dogs. Eldred sighed, thumping his new magic staff into the paved ground, walking across the bridge and into the chaos of the army's camp.

"Eldred?" asked a grandmotherly voice. "Eldred Surana?"

"Wynne!" he exclaimed, throwing his hood back to reveal long sable hair held in a rogue knot with a black leather tie and long, sharp ears. The twenty-year-old elf went up and hugged the woman he had considered a surrogate mother for many years.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm here to join with the Grey Wardens," he said, his smile making the gleaming black tattoos in the shape of flames upon his face waver and shift in the sunlight.

"Well, then, you must have duties to attend to, then. More than greeting an old woman. And whatever happened in the Circle that made Duncan invoke the Right of Conscription, I will hear of it from Irving. I would not force you to remember." And with that, she walked off.

Eldred went his own way around the camp, shaking his head. He had never really understood Irving's on again-off again lover, but perhaps that was for the best. He found himself walking over, making his way towards the mabari enclosure. The hounds had always fascinated him—all the intelligence of a shemlen with the sleek physique that spoke to their past as wolves. He noticed the kennel master fidgeting around as if he wanted to say something. The mage decided to help him.

"What is it, messere kennel master?" asked Eldred.

The shemlen ran his hand through greasy brown hair. "Ah, the Warden recruit. There's this mabari, see, and in the last battle he got a little taste of darkspawn flesh. Nasty stuff, that is. Got a bit of the taint in 'im. He bites, so I need someone to muzzle 'im who ain't afraid to get 'is hands dirty. 'E's a fine specimen. Hate to have to put 'im down."

Eldred nodded. "I could undertake such a task."

The kennel master's face lit up. "Really? You have m'thanks, messere. Here is what needs to be put on him."

Eldred nodded again, slipping into the enclosure and taking the muzzle. He threw back his black travelling cloak, freeing his hands to help the animal. The war hound in question was a brown mabari weighing in at a little over two hundred pounds. It was about two hands tall at the shoulder, and its coat was spotted with black, sickly-looking spots that smelled of rot. The mage assumed this to be the darkspawn taint; he didn't dare try to reach out to it with his magical seventh sense. That created a sense of familiarity he didn't want to feel in relation to the taint anytime soon.

The beast cowered in the corner of the fence, and Eldred reached out with his sixth sense that all elves had, few knew about, and even fewer ever mastered, trying to convey to the frightened dog that the mage was not seeking to harm him. Mercifully, this worked, and with nothing more than a whimper, it allowed him to slip the muzzle over its head. The elf felt that that was not enough, and so relented, reaching his hands out and speaking words haltingly, for he did not fully understand them. His magic leaned quite heavily towards the primal, the destructive magicks that allowed him to control and simulate certain weather conditions, but he nevertheless reached out and wove healing magic as best he could. Satisfied, he stood back up with the help of his staff, retching blood into a simple cotton kerchief he had palmed from his belt. Scolding himself for trying to use magic so soon after consuming the magebane—the only way he could keep his power under control— and healing magic, no less! He knew full well it took far more out of him; he was no healer, and could not create anything with his magic that did not destroy. It was ironic; it ran counter to his nature as many knew it. On the outside, he was pleasant, genial and calm, which seemed to bespeak one who knew how to heal, although he was that way because he feared the dark rage that so often boiled inside of him.

Eldred straightened, putting away the bloodstained white cloth. He walked from the enclosure and moved to speak to the kennel master.

"Your mabari is muzzled and stabilized, messere. But I fear he will not get much better. A pity, too. It is truly a fine animal."

"Y'see," said the man. "That was what I wanted to talk to you about. I got word that there's this flower, whi'e wi' a blood-red center, tha's buil' up an immu'ity to the taint. Grows ou' in the Wilds, it does. Could make a poul'ice to treat the taint."

"I'll keep an eye open. If I come across it, I'll get it to you," said Eldred. What his healing magic lacked, his skills as an herbalist and an apothecary more than made up for. Often, he could notice and identify plants much faster than any of the other apprentices. He thought it might have had some effect on how quickly he went from apprentice to mage, but dismissed it. He knew full well why. Gregoir wanted to see if he could control his (so he'd been told) "considerable" power well enough that he didn't turn into a very dangerous pride abomination, the blighted templar bastard. And if not for his quick mind and seventh sense that only he seemed to have, he would have.

He turned away from the very grateful kennel master and made a trek through the camp, catching a glimpse of a very nervous-looking fat man with a big sword and even bigger head, as well as a dubious-looking chap wearing studded leather armor and twirling an iron dagger between his fingers, a bow on his back. Eldred continued on toward a sound of distress coming from the ruins of the fortress.

"I will not be harassed!" yelled a mage he recognized as Owen Amell at an amused-looking blonde shemlen who looked much like a certain monarch he knew…

"Aww, and I was gonna name one of my children after you. The grumpy one," said the shemlen. Eldred suppressed a chuckle, watching the blonde. A funny one, especially since the mage had no love for the lordling mage out of the Free Marches. Too self-important and snotty. Refreshing to see him taken down a peg or two. Or forty-five, but Eldred would have to be satisfied with three.

"Your glibness does you no credit, Alistair. If you insist, I will attend to the Revered Mother," said Amell, walking away. Eldred, knowing this strange shemlen was the one he was to meet on Duncan's orders, strolled up to him with barely a glance in the direction of the browbeaten enchanter.

"Y'know, one thing I love about the Blight is how it brings everyone together," said Alistair, addressing the elf.

"I know what you mean," responded Eldred, chuckling.

"It's like a party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That _would give the darkspawn something to think about." They both shared a laugh at that. Then Alistair began looking at him quizzically. "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

Eldred bristled despite himself. "Would it make your day worse if I was?"

"Not really. I'd just like to know my likelihood of being turned into a toad at any given moment," Alistair responded, seemingly unfazed. The elf had to laugh at that despite his anger, and the emotion quickly diffused.

"You're a strange one, you know that?" Eldred commented.

"Strange as they come… wait, I know you! You're that new Warden recruit Duncan brought!" the human exclaimed.

The elf chuckled. "I'm Eldred," he supplied.

"Right, that was the name," Alistair replied. "Well, as a junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining." Changing tack, he spoke. "So, I'm curious. Have you ever actually encountered the darkspawn before?"

"No, I can't say I have," Eldred answered honestly, wrapping both hands around his staff as if he were leaning upon it for support–which, given his frail form, he most certainly was.

"When I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another. But since Duncan sent you to me… It's time, isn't it?" A nod was his only answer. "Then when you're ready, let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started. "

Eldred considered the human before him. The human bearing the Chantry's sigil was amusing; odd, yes, but in a decidedly good way. It was clear to the mage that, though Alistair had obviously at one point been training to be a Templar, but never took his vows–he lacked what Eldred liked to call "that _special _touch," which seemed to make every member of the Order a curmudgeon at best, and a homicidal sadist the next, though most were arrogant windbags who, in reality, were simpering brats–and for that, Eldred was immeasurably grateful. He knew not whether or not he could have borne the stress of serving in the Grey Wardens with a full Templar of any of the three aforementioned varieties, though it was true that the sociopathic Templar was far more native to the Free Marches, and thank the Maker that there were none of the fanatical variety in Ferelden; they were found in the Free Marches, but mainly in Orlais. He decided that this would be a most… _interesting _experience, travelling with Alistair.

"I look forward to travelling with you," he said at last.

"Really?" Alistair asked, surprised. "You do? Huh. That's a switch. Well, lead on!" He gestured toward the road back. Eldred nodded his head; indeed, it was past time that they deal with the task at hand. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he was quite excited to be on with the journey ahead.

The path to Duncan's fire was pretty short, all things considered. Alistair, unlike what Eldred would have expected of someone possessing his _considerable _constitution, did not object to the elf's necessarily sedate pace; having a childhood locked in a tower working with magicks that were considered far above his years, in addition to the power Irving said he had, which was "vast but untamed"–which was putting it mildly; indeed, without his magebane potion, working magic for him was akin to attempting to force a monsoon into a reagent pouch–resulted in him being physically weak to begin with; coupled with the magebane required for him to cast safely, he was positively _sickly_. He was grateful, then, when the sword-bearing Warden besides him proved to be so accommodating.

Finally, they reached the fire, where the other two recruits were already present.

"You found Alistair, did you?" noted Duncan. "Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations." His intense gaze shifted from the elf to the warrior. "Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair," he said disapprovingly. Surprisingly, Eldred didn't snicker. Not at all; his calm expression was glued to his face securely, the mask firmly in place.

"What can I say?" blustered Alistair. "The Revered Mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army," he remarked wryly.

Duncan was not amused. "She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us," he chided, sounding very much like a father speaking to a small infant.

Alistair smarted at this, sounding, in a curious parallel to Duncan, much like the scolded toddler who had accidentally broken the window with a badly aimed pebble. "You're right, Duncan," he said. "I apologize."

"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin," said Duncan, redirecting his attention at the assembled recruits. "You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks," he continued. "The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood–one for each recruit."

"And the second?" spoke Eldred, listening attentively.

"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair," he said, returning his regard to the unusually reticent blond-haired Warden. "I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

"So," began Eldred, all eyes turning to him–some sharply, others decidedly less so. "In summary, go into the Wilds, find the old archive and obtain three vials of darkspawn blood. Understood?" he questioned.

Duncan nodded. "These scrolls contain treaties promising support," he elaborated. "Treaties that may prove valuable in the days to come. And watch over your charges, Alistair," he said, addressing the other Warden once again. "Return quickly and safely."

"We will," replied Alistair.

"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return," spoke Duncan, in the tone of a farewell.

"Well then," spoke Eldred, drawing his hood once more over his head. "What are we waiting for? We've got a world ahead of us and tasks to complete. Let's be off!" And with that, he walked off; Ser Jory stared at the back of his hood, slack-jawed, while the others, though surprised, took it in stride. After clearing their departure with the guard at the gate, Eldred led the motley crew into the Wilds. The gate closed…

…and the maws of a pack of wolves greeted their first foray into the wilderness.


	3. Chapter 2: A Witch of the Wilds

_The Korcari Wilds–9:30 Dragon Age_

"Wolves!" shouted Eldred. He cursed, but was grateful that at least the magebane had diffused to such a degree that it was now at an acceptable level within his system. Or at least, such that he could fight. He readied his staff and began–for the third time in his life (the others being the Harrowing and the phylactery chamber)–to work destructive magicks. First he spellbound the rest of his fellows' weapons with fire; following that, he prepared to lay down some of his heaviest artillery.

"Alistair! To the fore! Jory, flank! Daveth, attack their rear with your daggers!" shouted the elf as he froze the first wolf in place. The party did as they were told, not even registering the fact that it was not only an elf, but an elf _mage _telling them to do so. Nevertheless, when Alistair shield-bashed the frozen wolf such that it shattered, any preconceptions or objections the party might have had suddenly vanished.

Eldred laid down a cone of fire, freezing any wolves that got too close. He threw lightning across the battlefield, exhilarated with the release that came from working combat magicks, letting loose upon the wolves and their reinforcements. And all too soon, they were all dead. Slightly disappointed, but determined not to show it, Eldred straightened against his staff and righted his robes, before, with a practiced quickness, he drew his handkerchief from the folds of his garments and retched loudly into it. Alistair looked back, concerned, but Eldred motioned to him that nothing was wrong, even as the black cloth was stained crimson with his blood.

The party continued onwards, searching for the archive and keeping their eyes peeled for darkspawn. Eldred knew that Alistair was looking at him suspiciously, obviously under the impression that he might be a blood mage; he responded firmly in the negatory, secreting his magebane from his alchemist's pouch and displaying it to the Warden. As expected, he recognized the potion, and with color draining from his face, he mutely nodded his understanding. The elf chuckled softly; to say he was unused to having to explain his condition was putting it mildly. Due to his condition, Irving had spent the first seven years of Eldred's life teaching him the basic curriculum of the Circle, which most apprentices spent the better part of two decades mastering; consequently, he spent the rest of his time prior to the Harrowing studying independently, building up his knowledge of combat magic and getting intimately acquainted with his weaknesses. A side effect of this was that all of the archivists and instructors (and thus, most every apprentice or mage in the Tower) knew of his _particular _condition. It was an uncomfortable state of celebrity, such that his only real friend over the years had been Jowan; needless to say, he was more than glad to be rid of it.

It was a surprisingly short amount of time before they came across one of the king's missing scout parties; regarding it, Eldred was reminded of a slaughterhouse. The men were quite literally ripped to shreds, blood splattering the landscape and gathering in large, viscous pools of sanguine fluid.

"Over here!" called one man. Wounded, covered in blood and clutching his intestines into his side, the soldier crawled towards the party. Eldred groaned inwardly. Those wounds were nearly beyond his ability to heal, even in the short term; moreover, he was certain that by the end of this day, he'd have more blood in his handkerchief than in him. Nevertheless, he ran over to the man, wretched as he was, lying there prostrate upon the grass-turned-mud. "Who… is that?" the dying soldier asked. "Grey… Wardens…?"

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he?" asked Alistair glibly.

"My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn!" the soldier cried.

"Evidently," replied Eldred drily, removing the man's hand so as to get a better look. "Please try to refrain from shouting. Your wounds are grave enough; the _last _thing you need right now is a rupture. Hold still. Alistair, have you got bandages?"

"In my pack," he said.

"Good," noted Eldred. "Take them out and have them on standby; I may lose consciousness here," he ordered. After looking to make sure Alistair obeyed, the elf furrowed his brow in concentration, his hands hovering above the grievous wound as he chanted, the organs returning to their proper positions, layers of muscle, sinew and flesh knitting themselves back together. Once he was finished, the mage fell backwards onto his posterior unceremoniously, then turning over and retching ever more blood onto the already scarlet grass.

Once he regained control over his reaction to using such spells, he spoke. "Your wounds are healed," he began, "but you've been exsanguinated enough that you'll need to get back to camp as soon as possible. Though," he observed wryly, "I suppose you already knew that."

The soldier nodded mutely. "The darkspawn… they came out of the ground… I thought I was going to die like the others! Thank you, ser mage. I've got to return to camp." And with that, he staggered to his feet, limping doubled over back in the direction of Ostagar.

"Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men wiped out by darkspawn!" gasped Jory once the soldier was out of earshot.

"Calm down, Ser Jory. We'll be fine if we're careful," Alistair responded with a tone not unlike the one you would use to calm a horse.

"Those soldiers were careful," Jory went on, unconvinced. "And they were still overwhelmed. How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire _army _in these forests!"

"There are darkspawn about," replied Alistair, growing visibly more annoyed by the second. "But we're in no danger of running into the bulk of the horde."

"How do you know?" asked Jory petulantly. "I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back."

"You _sound _like a coward to me," commented Eldred. "And besides, you forget. I have magic at my command. Despite my propensity to cough up my own _vitae,_ I am perfectly capable of defending both myself and the party."

"I still do not relish the thought of encountering an army," sulked Jory.

"No one that is in his right mind does; and yet Alistair assures us the army is further from here than we need travel," Eldred observed.

"Know this: all Grey Wardens can sense the darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprise. That's why I'm here," qualified Alistair.

"Y'see, ser knight? We might die, but we'll be warned about it first!" said Daveth drily.

"That is… reassuring?" uttered Jory uncertainly.

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however…" Alistair began.

"Of course not; it wouldn't be much of a test were it easy," observed Eldred. "Anyways, despite your ability to sense darkspawn, Alistair, standing around in a site where darkspawn recently attacked is just _asking _for trouble. We'd best be off," said the mage, hefting his staff and continuing onwards.

It was not long afterwards when Eldred came upon the flower the kennel master had asked him to procure. Slipping his knife from his pouch, he cut the stem of the plant, secreting it into his robes. Upon using his staff to stand erect once more, he yelped and threw up a wall of fire, incinerating the arrows shot at him by human-sized, twisted creatures that could only be the variety of darkspawn known as the hurlock.

"Daveth! Take your bow and fire at the archers on the ridge! Alistair! Haft your shield and charge up the hill! Jory! Guard his rear and clean up! I'll be casting from here!" ordered Eldred. He snapped his fingers at one of the hurlocks and it snapped frozen. He followed up with a fist of stone that shattered the prone form of the creature. He cursed at the fact that area-of-effect projectile spells were but a little out of his reach; nevertheless, the party responded instantly, firing, bashing and cleaving their way through the creatures as Eldred rained lightning and ice and cones of fire down upon them. And soon, it was all over, the mage breathing heavily. Thankfully, the magebane was finally approaching tolerable levels; he could finally really let loose without retching his own lifeblood.

Taking care to remember why they were there, Eldred tried filling a vial with the blood of the creatures. Trouble was, so many of them were incinerated or had bashed-in skulls from Alistair's shield or were leaking brain matter from Daveth's well-placed shots that the only ones from which he could extract any amount of tainted _vitae _were the few Jory managed to cleave with his greatsword; further, most of that blood had dissipated into the river to the side of the path that the creatures had fallen into. Only one vial could be filled.

Shortly thereafter, following several fights around the immediate area, the obtaining of a Chasind flatblade, finding an inheritance lockbox for someone named Jogby (and consequently finding said Jogby's corpse facedown in a pool of his own sanguine bile) and deciding to return it to Redcliffe at the first opportunity and filling the vials, the party caught sight of a bridge; and upon that bridge, there was what Eldred supposed could only be a hurlock emissary.

"Daveth! Use your fire arrows to pick off the hurlocks flanking the caster! Do NOT run past it; it's most certainly trapped! Jory, run through there on my mark! Alistair, standby!" the elf shouted as he raised his hands. An almost manic grin overtook his face; this emissary was in for a surprise. The hurlock emissary launched a mind-affecting horror spell at Jory–a risky prospect at best–as its first attack…

…and consequently took a fireball directly to his face, leaving behind only a smoldering pile of grime-ridden robes.

"JORY! NOW!" shouted Eldred. With a mighty shout, Jory charged heedlessly through the bridge, trap after trap latching onto him; after slicing apart two hurlock archers, he fainted of exsanguination. But the mage's plan worked; Jory's charge had set off all of the traps, such that even the genlock rogues in hiding fell upon him.

"Alistair! Sally forth! Daveth! Time to show us how well you use those daggers!" ordered Eldred, tossing a bolt of lightning with a flick of his wrist. Alistair charged forward like a destrier, shield up and sword ready, plowing through the darkspawn that had fallen upon the Redcliffe knight, while Daveth freed his daggers, running and leaping to plunge both daggers into the back of a particular hurlock, sheets of blood gushing from the long, thin slash/stab wounds to create an effect not unlike a veil. He threw another dagger directly into the throat of a sword-wielding hurlock, slicing its esophagus and causing blood first to gush, then to gurgle, from the wound in its neck.

… As for Eldred, he seemed to his fellows to be preoccupied with turning the battlefield into nothing more than a series of smoking craters. Fireballs came flying into the melee whenever he could cast them, accompanied by stone fists and lightning bolts. One by one he also froze solid whichever hurlock was closest to his two active fellows, such that by piercing them they might shatter, especially considering the flame enchantment that was still present upon their blades.

When all the darkspawn were reduced to quivering slices of desiccated flesh or charred bits strewn across the field, they continued onwards towards their final goal. And so did they come upon the one type of darkspawn that Eldred had hoped not to encounter, out of all the varieties about which he'd read. Thankfully, Alistair, Daveth and the now-revived Jory quickly put the greatsword-wielding hurlock alpha into dire straits. Eldred occupied himself with incinerating, freezing, electrocuting and pulverizing the other hurlocks and genlocks on the field. Then, once they were all either reduced to smoking ruins, icy shards or limpid pools, the mage finished off the alpha with a carefully-aimed, expertly-timed fireball, which through his fellows off their feet with the force of its detonation. Quickly they regained their footing, only to see that the threat had been dealt with.

Eldred approached the ruins of the archive, his party members running to catch up, his staff thumping against the ground as he came upon earth that had been pounded into solidity by travel and the passage of time. He walked into the skeletal tower, bending over. Something was wrong, however; the chest was broken, the treaties, gone. The elf searched viciously through the remains of the trunk for the scrolls; if Duncan's tone was any indication, those treaties were paramount.

"Well, well. What have we here?" asked a female voice, beautiful, sensual, seductive, with a tenor like velvet. Eldred cocked his head; then, catching her out of the corner of his eye, he turned slowly about as she began to walk down the ramp behind him continuing as she walked with a not-so-subtle, but doubtlessly natural, seduction in each step. "Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned?"

Eldred caught her fully in sight. She was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon, his heart aching in faint recognition as he remained firmly entranced by her lithe, natural feline gait.

"Or merely an intruder," she continued, her voice lowering dangerously. "Come into these darkspawn-filled wilds of mine in search of easy prey?" Her strange golden eagle-eyes narrowed as she regarded the party with suspicion, magic staff upon her back.

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?" she asked, stopping in front of him with her hand on her hip in a suggestive pose. Eldred, though transfixed by her untamed beauty, was automatically on his guard; a misspoken word here might just be his last. He reminded himself to tread lightly and cautiously here. Deciding her too intelligent to warrant being lied to or evaded–that would be quite disrespectful of what he instinctually knew was quite the remarkable woman–he opted for the truth.

"I am neither. The Grey Wardens once owned this tower, but it has evidently since fallen into disrepair," he stated.

"Indeed; 'tis a tower no longer," she scoffed. "The Wilds _have_, in truth, reclaimed this desiccated corpse. "I have watched your progress for some time," she stated, walking again, this time past the party. "'Where do they go?' I wondered. 'Why are they here?'" She stepped up onto the ledge of the ruin, overlooking the rest of their path.

"And now you disturb ashes that none have touched for so long. Why is that?" she questioned, pivoting to regard the assembled men and elf.

"Don't answer her," warned Alistair in a low voice. "She looks Chasind, and that means that others may be nearby," he said warily.

"You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?" she mocked, miming the motion of a bird's wings.

"Yes," Alistair said thoughtfully, in a tone almost akin to an epiphany of a particular sort. "Swooping is bad."

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is!" exclaimed Daveth. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"Witch of the Wilds?" the woman asked slowly, sounding almost incredulous. "Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" she tisked. She turned to regard the black-robed Eldred once more. "You there," she addressed. "Elves are not frightened little boys. Tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

"I, m'lady," began the mage, bowing slightly, "am the one called Eldred. It is truly a great pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Now that is a proper civil greeting," she remarked, sounding flattered. "Even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan."

_Morrigan._

THAT was the name that had haunted his dreams since his dreams began, from whence he recognized her voluptuous yet toned physique, her feline grace, the sexuality that pronounced her every step, underscoring and not belying her nature as a truly formidable woman. None of this showed on his face, however; indeed, his countenance was inscrutable as the will of an ivory statue.

"Shall I guess your purpose?" she asked at the tail end of his reverie. "You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer?'" interrupted Alistair, ignoring the death-glare Eldred threw at him over his shoulder, his eyes flashing dangerously once more. "You stole them, didn't you? You're… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!"

"How very eloquent," replied Morrigan, obviously unhappy to have to engage the Warden. "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems," continued Alistair, seemingly oblivious to how big a fool he was making of himself. _Please don't say it, please don't say it, please don't say it!_ Eldred prayed silently to no deity in particular. "Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them!" _And he said it,_ the mage thought in exasperation. _Idiot!_

"I will not, for 'twas not I who removed them! Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened," replied Morrigan.

"Forgive my comrade's unseemly behavior; he is a good man, but can be quite dense at the most inopportune moments," Eldred began. "But would you be so kind as to tell us who took the treaties from here?"

"'Twas my mother, in fact," she replied, her exasperation still evident, but not so much as her relief.

"Can you take us to her?" he asked in repose.

"Hm. There is a sensible request. I like you," she remarked.

"I'd be careful. First it's, 'I like you…' but then 'ZAP!' Frog time," interjected Alistair.

"Alistair, with all due respect, would it be so difficult for you to PLEASE SHUT UP?!" Eldred shouted as he turned around slowly to regard the warrior. "And besides, even if she were this 'sneaky witch-thief,' then one, she'd have already turned _you_," he continued, ticking off on his left hand. "And two, I've known the counterspell for polymorph effects since I was seven. Please do yourself a favor and follow my lead. I know what I'm doing." Finished finally, and satisfied to note that everyone else in the party was chastised sufficiently such that they would not shout out similarly idiotic sentiments, he turned back to regard Morrigan. "Then by all means, please, lead on."

"Follow me then, if it pleases you," she said wryly. She turned and started off into the Wilds; the elf and his party followed behind.

"Greetings, Mother," spoke Morrigan as the party came upon a sizable hut. "I bring before you four Grey Wardens who…"

"I see them, girl," barked an old crone standing by the door of the dwelling. "Mm. Much as I expected. Except…" she said, regarding the party and Eldred.

"Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" asked Alistair. The mage cradled his face in his left hand, shaking his head in incredulity.

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide; either way, one's a fool," countered the crone.

"She's a witch, I tell you! We shouldn't be talking to her!" Daveth whispered.

"Quiet, Daveth! If she really _is _a witch, do you want to make her mad?" replied Jory sharply.

"There's a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant in the greater scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will," she said dismissively. She turned to Eldred. "And what of you?" she asked. "Does your elven mind give you a different viewpoint, or do you believe as the others do?"

"I'm not sure what to believe," he replied honestly.

"A statement that possesses far more wisdom than it implies," she remarked. "So much about you is uncertain. And yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!"

"So… _this_ is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?" joked Alistair. Eldred glared at him.

"Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that. She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it!" she observed drily. "Oh, how she dances under the moon!" The crone cackled wildly.

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother," chided Morrigan.

"True," the crone acknowledged. "They came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these." She pulled from her sleeve a bundle of scrolls, handing them to Eldred.

"You…" began Alistair, ready to launch into a full-on righteous rant that would have at best made him look even more like a fool, and at worse provoke the crone to attack; Eldred wanted no part of a scuffle with her–the power she wielded was so obvious to the mage's eyes that it was literally radiating from her like a shield. "…oh. You protected them."

"And why not?" the old woman countered. "Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize!"

"Thank you for returning them," interjected Eldred before Alistair could attempt to enquire further; the old woman–even more so than her obviously formidable power–was unnerving him further the more time he spent in proximity to her.

"Such manners!" exclaimed the crone. "Always in the last place you look. Like stockings! Oh, do not mind me," she chuckled. "You have what you came for."

"Time for you to go, then," Morrigan remarked.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl!" interjected the old woman, sounding almost scandalized. "These are your guests."

"Oh, very well," huffed Morrigan. "I will show you out of the woods. Follow me." With that, she walked off. Eldred sighed, taking his staff and walking after her, Alistair, Daveth and Jory guarding the rear. They walked in silence through the woods, not willing to break the stillness that she felt necessary to keep. When evening came, she vanished. But it mattered not; before the party was the gate back to the camp at Ostagar.


End file.
